


The Gathering

by aegistheia



Series: The Tales In-Between [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Ensemble Cast, Gen, My Feels Let Me Show You Them, featuring a drunken timeline that blends Tolkien's original with the movies' mad scramble, so I don't blame you if you side-eye me for my arithmetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegistheia/pseuds/aegistheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve dwarves, one wizard, and one hobbit answer Thorin Oakenshield’s call for companions on the quest for Erebor.  This is a story of their marshalling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Dark themes, including hints of death, starvation and refugee psychology. Also a fucked-up timeline mash of both the original and the movie events where possible, no thanks to Tolkien himself not knowing/writing down half the secrets of the Dwarves in his mind, and Sir PJ and Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens simplifying it into a giant accounting mess where the years don’t add up and my literary headcanon got flipped ass over teakettle and etc.
> 
>  **Also Archived On:** [Livejournal](https://aegiscrypt.livejournal.com/tag/story:%20the%20gathering); [Dreamwidth](https://aegiscrypt.dreamwidth.org/tag/story:%20the%20gathering).

_I_

The first lesson Kíli can ever remember learning about Dwarves is that they are life in the stone.

(“That’s because your memory is bad,” Fíli had said when Kíli had told him, and Kíli had made him take it back because he can’t very well let Fíli have the last word, can he?)

They are blood in the metal and life in the stone. They are patience in the fire and eternal in the will. They endure when all others fail. Mama had made sure he could recite it back to her before she’d moved onto other lessons. But even without the repetition, Kíli wouldn’t forget. It’s one of Kíli’s most precious memories, the warmth of Mama’s arms as she narrates the tales of their people to him and Fíli.

So it’s no surprise when Kíli finds that he does not grow tired quickly of his favourites. He could spend days on them, like running amok with Fíli across their city, or sneaking off to explore the nearby copse of trees, or listening to Mama and Da when they’d sang together. One of his most beloved tricks is leaping upon Thorin when he least suspects it. His uncle would roar more fiercely than a warg (probably), and the way Mama would laugh at Thorin when he roars would make Fíli grin like nothing else. It’s the _best_. He’d do it over and over again if he could get away with it.

(“You keep making her laugh like that, lad,” Mister Dwalin had murmured once, then looked to regret it when Kíli had demanded that he’d do it even without Mister Dwalin asking him, then why he’d seemed so sad.

“He misses Da like we do,” Fíli’d hissed, “don’t be stupid.” So Kíli had said sorry and Mister Dwalin had swept him up and returned him to Mama’s arms, because Kíli had remembered then how much it could hurt missing Da too.

But Kíli is strong, like Da was strong, and like Thorin is strong, so he’d been laughing and jumping on Thorin again that afternoon, because Kíli doesn’t need to be gentle with Thorin. His uncle’s temper could crack new stone, but he wouldn’t crack it on family. They are stronger than that.

So the days had passed by, and soon enough Da’s memory hadn’t hurt everybody so bad anymore, so Kíli could stop being gentle with them too.)

They keep telling him that Mama is precious, though, like Kíli could ever forget. Of course Mama is precious. Dís is a Princess of Durin’s folk, a fearless beauty, and a fierce fighter besides. She’s the strongest Dwarf Kíli will ever know. “We are the children of Father Durin,” she would sing to him and Fíli every night before they sleep. “We are the children of gold, and of war. We are the discordance permitted in the music of Eru Ilúvatar. We do not fall easy.”

Kíli is not hardened into full adulthood yet though, still molten and shifting with brimming curiosity, so Kíli is bored with all the same things tonight. Sometimes Mama is willing to tell them more stories before they sleep, so right when they finish Mama’s song he sends a quick prayer to Mahal, and then to Da so he could persuade Mahal for him, and tries his luck. “Wait, Mama, wait! Tell me about the Battle of Azanûlbizar, and how you broke the lieutenant of Azog while Uncle was slaying the Defiler’s arm!”

“Uncle did not slay Azog’s arm,” Fíli sniffs, “he cut it off.”

“Did Dwalin not chant about our enmity with the orcs with you all afternoon?” Mama looks amused. “The entire city must have heard the two of you bellowing until supper. I distinctly remember the bit about the Second Age.”

“Yeah, but nobody ever sings about Azanûlbizar, and I want to hear what you and he did,” Kíli says petulantly. “Thorin only likes the song about the treasures beyond the Misty Mountains.”

Mama smiles. It is unhappy enough that Kíli sits up right away to tangle fingers into her beard, wishing he could take the question back, wishing he could fight off all the dragons and all the orcs in her memories. Behind him, he feels Fíli sit up as well. “Oh, my children. Thorin doesn’t sing the song to you because it is his favourite. He sings it to you because it is the most important to him. Do you remember the lyrics?”

Kíli pouts, indignant. “Of course we do!”

“He sings it every time he puts us to bed,” Fíli adds helpfully.

“Is the children of Durin song your most important song, Mama?”

“Yes,” Mama replies. She folds him and Fíli into a big hug. “It teaches my sons to be strong and unyielding as stone. It teaches my sons to understand precious things, and to know fear, and to recognize these as signs of a life worth living.”

After she leaves, Fíli squirms close. “You throttle Thorin a good one tomorrow, Kíli,” he tells Kíli solemnly. “Make sure Mama’s there to watch.”

So Kíli takes special care to noose Thorin good the day after, stalking him after lunch and waiting like rock until Thorin is well and distracted by a very cooperative Fíli. Thorin does roar more fiercely than a warg, and Mama does laugh like a bellows, and Fíli does grin like the light breaking on gold. It’s honestly the _best_.

After Thorin pins a squealing Fíli down and manages to catch Kíli even after he wiggles as hard as he can, they sit together in the shade of the shallow cavern. The view is very beautiful, lush forests bracketed by the speckled granite. Just beyond the horizon, if he squints, Kíli can see the beginnings of the white peaks that must be the cold Misty Mountains.

At a whim, he hums the tune of Thorin’s most important song. It doesn’t sound nearly so sad when sung like so in the bright daylight. Maybe if they renamed the Misty Mountains to the Snowy Mountains—

Mama takes a sharp breath. Thorin’s arm tightens, then draws him close. Fíli giggles breathlessly as he is tugged close as well.

“One day,” Thorin says, voice rumbling like a rockslide in his chest, “one day, you will live like the princes you are beneath the Mountain.”

Kíli wraps his arms around his uncle. He has never loved him more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, I explained my headcanon about why Dis is her age in my timeline mash in the [following comment](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/3816567).


	2. Chapter 2

_II_

“I am talentless with words,” Thorin admits, “I do not like my prospects.”

At his back, Dwalin matches him step for step as they trot deeper down into the royal hall. “You like scarce little, Thorin,” he says, as gently as his childhood friend can bear.

Thorin sighs, gaze slanting towards the earth. “I fear my heart may falter with any more loss.”

“Distance is no adequate shield. Forging one of mithril may serve you better.”

Thorin barks a laugh. Dwalin takes the loosening of the tension along the line of his spine as a victory. “Would that Khazad-dûm’s silver for the soul be so easily forged!”

“We have received more of it than any other race. If nothing else, let the surety of Dwalin’s service buttress your strength.”

Thorin exhales, clasping his shoulder when Dwalin draws abreast with him. “You are an invaluable shield-brother, son of Fundin.”

“I am ever at your service. As is,” Dwalin adds, “my brother.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Thorin pushes the archive repository’s door open.

Balin looks up from his book, flashing them a quizzical smile. “Hello, Thorin.” His eyes slide to Dwalin with a flicker of acknowledgement, then fix back onto Thorin. “You look uncommonly grim.”

True to form, Thorin does not bother mincing words. “I am debating the merits of our settlement removing from the Blue Mountains.”

The twist to Balin’s mouth is almost unsurprised when he sets his quill down. “You do not like the hospitality of ancient Gabilgathol? She is welcoming enough, to guard our gates so agreeably.”

“We lie in between the ruins of kingdoms not our own, Balin, and their old grudges are poisoning our stone. Our people have dwindled. Were more to return to Mahal’s halls, we will not be able to recover.”

“This current run of stone-sickness has been particularly virulent, yes,” Balin muses. “And so you would suggest we wander instead?”

“If our people can be saved by that, I would have us depart. Our treasuries can tide us for a month of long marching.” Thorin huffs a troubled breath. “Only, we cannot head to the Iron Hills. They are already overflowing with the less able of our refugees.”

“And to where will we go, laddie? As you say, we can no longer look to the Iron Hills, and the Grey Mountains have long been lost to us. Shall we drift closer to fallen Khazad-dûm and fight for Mahal’s mercy again? Mingle amongst the Men and Hobbits of Bree? Play politics with poor gems and fractured loupes?”

Thorin closes his eyes. “I do not _know_ , Balin. But my heart tells me we do not belong here. I would not have my people build a future in a place where they cannot delve deep and lay claim to loyal bedrock. I would not have my people die in poverty, surrounded by infertile stone! We cannot fight illness, but we can fight for our place in the world! Sickness shall not claim the final victory from us while our breaths still linger and our legs still move!”

Dwalin thumps the table in fervent support, then frowns. Balin is merely watching Thorin with tired eyes, hands motionless upon the pages. “Do you know why your grandfather had led us to Khazad-dûm, even knowing that Durin’s Bane yet lingers within?”

Thorin blinks. “No.”

“I do not know either, but I would hazard that part of the reason was because he had longed to set roots in our great ancestral halls. He had plotted to make a venture for it before you were even born. We would have sent a vanguard to resettle the mines, too, if Smaug had not struck us first.” Balin shakes his head once, subtle as the settling of sand. “And I suspect that if we had not struck out for Khazad-dûm first, we would not have lasted before we reached the Blue Mountains.”

Thorin snorts bitterly. “And what of it? Any Dwarf would wish to reclaim the fabled Deathless Seat. You must admit that even the foulest of orcs could not taint its magnificence.”

“Aye. To behold our birthplace was an honour indeed. But you must remember that dwarves are not meant to endure tumbling about without a destination. Even with the temporary claim at Khazad-dûm, we had still lost many during our long march after from root-sickness. Now we are asking that they willingly displace themselves from the place they already call home for a new settlement in places unknown. It will cost us all.”

“My people will not fall here,” Thorin growls. “Not in bed, suffocated by sickness and declawed by our enemies! Death in Erebor would be more noble than death in the infirmary!”

“So you would have our people march to die?”

Thorin presses his lips together into a white line.

“Thorin. Dwarves need a home. To ask them to strip themselves of their functional anchor is to ask them to commit suicide.”

“Balin,” Dwalin rumbles warningly. He is liking this conversation less and less.

“Peace, brother,” Balin says with another adamantine flick of his eyes. “You come for advice, so I will give it. Do not be hasty. We are still young, this settlement, and it takes time for any earthquake’s aftershocks to fade. And we currently do not have the resources to transplant our shallow roots again.” He falls quiet for a few heartbeats; when he speaks again, his voice is much more gentle. “Óin has said that this bout of stone-sickness will soon pass, and he has not been wrong before. Your people need rest and stability now, Thorin, not the least of all your nephews.”

Dwalin sighs as he watches the vestiges of the ease in Thorin’s shoulders disappear. Thank you, brother. “I do not do this only for my sister-sons.”

“I do not mean to imply that you do.” Balin sighs. “You are still grieving, laddie. There is no shame in that. Go to your nephews. They will look for you more so than ever, now. When we have rebuilt and recovered, we will have more room to look for an opportunity to find a more suiting home.”

Thorin bows his head, then makes his way out of the repository on uncharacteristically silent feet. Dwalin stays in favour of scowling at Balin. “That was cruel, brother.”

“Aye.” The old grief crushing Balin’s shoulders sobers Dwalin’s growing temper somewhat. “I do not like what I must say, but I will say what must be said regardless. I have my duty, as does he.”

“He knows his duty.”

“I know. I am only reminding him that he knows. He is a good lad, Thorin.”

Dwalin takes a more careful look at his brother. That strange tone of voice... “You are uneasy.”

The look in Balin’s eyes is distant. “In the gilded books of our people, it is recorded that we had isolated ourselves many times during the world’s troubles.”

“For our own protection.”

“Indubitably. And yet, our isolation had brought about our ruin when we woke Durin’s Bane in the depths of Khazad-dûm.”

“Speak clearly, brother. Why are you concerned? What significance does this bit of our history have in here?”

“Why do you think we had woken Durin’s Bane?”

Dwalin frowns. “I am no scholar, Balin.”

“That is precisely why I am asking you. In your perspective, why?”

“We were delving, and we did not know it had made its bed there.”

“Yet the rate and depth of our delving had accelerated at a rate far beyond the growth of our recorded population...”

Dwalin can only gape for the longest moment. “Are you claiming that our people were growing _greedy_?”

Balin straightens abruptly, voice sharpening to a whipcrack. “Son of Fundin, I have need of your aid.”

Dwalin blinks, finding himself bowing half out of reflex from the authority in Balin’s tone, and half out of sheer surprise. “Dwalin, at your service.”

“Have you ever beheld a treasured ring in Thorin Oakenshield’s possession? A band of runed gold, inset with a precious emerald the colour of the deepest mines?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Balin nods, unsurprised and... relieved? “Perhaps of the blood, then,” he murmurs.

Dwalin discovers that his expression is locked into a dark scowl solely because his attempt to frown yields only a growing headache. “Brother...”

Balin flashes him a brief, enigmatic smile. “Think you no more on this, Dwalin. It is only unfounded speculation of a scholar without credible sources.”

“You will accompany Thorin when the time comes to search for a new home?”

“If the time comes, we shall see.” Balin pauses, then smiles more widely, more genuinely. “Yet I am reassured to know that whatever my decision may be, Dwalin’s axes will be ever his to call upon.”

Dwalin draws straight, squaring his shoulders and bracing his stance. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balin fought me _unbelievably_ hard in the writing of this chapter. This, dear reader, is why watching/reading/playing through the source material before embarking upon the writing of fic would be the wisest course of action. (Also, never underestimate Balin.)


	3. Chapter 3

_III_

“Thorin,” Óin says, striding into the royal ceramic studio. “A word.”

Thorin straightens, looking surprised. He is streaked with coal-dust and sweat, inevitable byproducts of preparing the kiln for his bone-dry stoneware. “Cousin Óin. This is a rare pleasure.”

“The ravens are moving. Have you heard? Speak up,” he adds irritably when Thorin opens his mouth, “you younglings are so soft-voiced these days.”

Thorin pauses, looking slightly uncertain. But his voice is gratifyingly more clear when he does speak. “I have not heard. The ravens, you say?”

“Aye. Word from the Shire says they head north-east, and the merchants whisper that they are flocking to the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin inhales sharply.

“They are returning, Thorin.” Óin’s voice drops of its own accord. “After one hundred and sixty years, the birds of Ravenhill are returning. Thrushes were seen flying there, too. It is portentous.”

“I must think on this,” Thorin mutters. “Why, after so long? What has that foul beast been doing?”

“It is an omen of the dragon’s doom!” Óin barks. “But not of _whom_ will be instrumental in his downfall! Thorin, we need information, and we need it now.”

Thorin stands decisively. “I am heading to Bree to speak with a few contacts in three days’ time. I will source for news then.” His eyes flash. “If dragonfall is indeed to come, I will not allow the home and wealth of our people to be plundered!”

Óin nods, sharp and approving. “Keep me informed. I will divine for more readings in the meantime.”

Thorin turns to face him fully at that, and bows. “Your input will be very valuable, Óin. I thank you.”

Óin grunts, waving him off. “Thank me after you return from Bree, lad.” He leaves Thorin staring into the kiln’s unopened doors with unseeing eyes and a roiling heart, well aware that the same live tension is running through his every step. It is a painful thing, to hope against all that they have lost. Their people are no longer proud masters of stone empires across the land; they now eke out barely sustainable lives under the plough of shadow and uncertainty.

They know better than to hope, though; they are survivors of the sack of Erebor and the carnage of Azanûlbizar. They cannot just hope. They must act. They must fight.

Dwarves are vengeful creatures, slow to forgive, slower to forget. The young do not know the Lonely Mountain, and do not know the terrible greed in the cursed worm’s eye that had spelled the doom of their kindred. The young do not know the fatality that had bowed the backs of their Kings-in-Exile in the pitiless years of their wanderings. The young do not know what it means, to live as penniless children of the greatest Dwarf Father in Middle-earth.

Óin knows. Óin has not forgiven. And Óin will not let the young forget.


	4. Chapter 4

_IV_

It is not the first time Olórin has seen dwarves in Bree, but the gravitas surrounding that particular dwarf – and he has to be a lord, to bear the crest of Durin so proudly – sings a tune that he would be hard-pressed to ignore even when asleep. It is just as well that the dwarf had fastened intent eyes upon him the moment he’d stepped into the Inn’s common room.

Picking up his pint, Olórin approaches the dark-haired dwarf and gestures at the empty bench across from him. “Is this seat taken?”

The dwarf shakes his head, all but staring as he sits down. “I am here to speak with you, I believe,” he says abruptly, “if Mahal has so bade my attention to affix itself onto none other but you.”

Interesting. So this dwarf has ears for Ainulindalë. “And I, with you.”

A brief frown crosses the dwarf’s brow. “It would be easier if I knew your name, stranger.”

Olórin raises an eyebrow. “I am commonly known as Gandalf, though your people has named me Tharkûn.”

The dwarf looks at him with some recognition as he stands and bows. “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, at your service. I have heard tell of you in Dale, Grey Pilgrim, when the township of Men once flourished within the shadows of Erebor.”

Olórin peers at him closely. He seems about the right age... “If my mind has not failed me, you are a grandchild of Thrór, King under the Mountain.”

Thorin Oakenshield’s mouth tightens. “Yes. I am the current King-in-Exile.”

“Well met, Thorin Oakenshield, King-in-Exile. May your beard grow ever long. I have not had dealings with your people for a long time.”

“We have not had many dealings with many for a long time,” says Thorin Oakenshield, in a tone indicating that the subject is closed. “But we cannot afford to be cut off, and we have grown ignorant of the world’s tidings. I have need of your council, Gandalf.”

“Certainly! I would like to know how your people have fared, myself. They are well, I hope? Your men hale, your women lively, and your children safe?”

Thorin scowls. “You are daring, to inquire after our treasures so.”

Olórin considers him. “Hm. A trade then, perhaps? A bit of news for another?”

The dwarf eyes him for another spell, then nods. “Deal. News for news, within reason. Tell me of Smaug, the worm beneath the Lonely Mountain.”

A straightforward question. How refreshing, after convoluted dealings that is Curumo’s debate over the stirring dark in the north. “The Greenwood elves still keep a vigilant watch on the Mountain, but neither they nor the Men of Esgaroth have seen any sign of the dragon for sixty years.”

Thorin snorts, a vengeful sound. “They would deserve little better should the drake take them by surprise.”

Olórin gives him a severe look. “It is one thing to harbour bitterness for aid unrendered, but another entirely to wish harm upon others.”

Thorin Oakenshield returns him a venomous look of his own. “I am not here to listen to your reproof. Speak quickly. What tidings do you seek from me?”

“What of Dís, the Princess? It has been long since I have seen her, and she was quite the vivacious member of Thrór’s court when I last visited.”

Thorin lowers his unrelenting gaze. “One score and ten years ago, the stone-sickness claimed many of my people. My sister was struck down while simultaneously battling it and a warg pack en route to a trading post.”

Olórin sighs. How short and frail are the mortal Children’s lives! “May the Smith welcome her with a warm hearth.”

“She fought valiantly to her last breath. She will meet him with her head held high.” Thorin Oakenshield falls silent, brooding over his ale; Olórin allows it to eat into the flow of their conversation until the break becomes irreparable. At length, the dwarf drains his mug and stands. “I must retire for the evening, master wizard. Perhaps we can continue the conversation come morning?”

His meeting with Círdan is of utmost importance, if the Dúnedain’s reports about the quickening dark prove accurate, but if the song of Thorin Oakenshield is so deafeningly strong, perhaps— well, Olórin is not one for gambling, but he is feeling uncommonly in tune today. It is worth an attempt. “I must set off early. I have business near Ered Luin.”

“I am headed there as well. I would share the road with you tomorrow, if your travel permits. Please.”

It is not quite a request, just short of a demand. Thorin Oakenshield is certainly a handful, just like his fathers. Olórin agrees, pleased despite himself; after they part, he heads to bed himself, thoughts awhirl.

His sleep has never been very restful, but his dreams that night are filled with the grim dirge of Thorin Oakenshield’s melody. He wakes humming beneath his breath, as he once had done during the days of his tutelage under the Lady Nienna. For a long, hard moment he allows himself to ache for home, and then he moves.

Thorin Oakenshield is saddling his pony when Olórin steps into the stables. They do not speak beyond perfunctory pleasantries until they are well on the road; it is not until they are in the thick of Shire-music that Thorin begins. “My people are finding some prosperity in the Blue Mountains, but the ores run thin beneath old rock. We would re-establish trading routes with other folk, but we are not familiar with current politics.”

That is simple enough a request; Olórin lets his tongue run off with half a mind and dedicates the other half to puzzling over the new harmonies. Meeting the Dwarven heir of Erebor at this time could very well be fate... Smaug is no Ancalagon, lazy and relatively peaceful as he is, but he is possibly the only great dragon left on this part of Middle-earth that might prove to be devastating enough to guarantee a war with no chance of victory. It would not be remiss for precautions to be taken against such a potential consequence.

It is time, then, to begin the final phases of sealing the paths leading to a dark rising. Círdan will be most interested to hear about this new development.

“You are most curious about the domains around your fallen kingdom, Thorin Oakenshield,” he says mildly during their dinner in the vestiges of Donnamira Took’s affections in Eastfarthing, “especially given how your people have not crossed the Misty Mountains since the stone-sickness had descended upon your settlement.”

Thorin is silent for a long moment, interrupting his question about the economy of metallurgy around the Long Lake in favour of giving Olórin an inscrutable look. “Stay at my halls tomorrow night, wizard. You will not find more hospitable lodgings unless you ride hard into the moon’s waxing, and we can continue our exchange.”

He aims for privacy, then. Olórin approves; some things are not meant to be discussed under the eaves of unsecured places. They travel before dawn the next morning without changing their pace or their topic of conversation.

The settlement in Ered Luin is decently sized and well-positioned for defence. Its buildings are functional and painfully bare in comparison to the Lonely Mountain’s gilded halls, but Olórin had expected that. What he hadn’t expected are the dwarflings clustering close to peer up at him, intrigued by his strange dress and foreign carriage.

Mortal Children have short lives and shorter generations, but their younglings are charmingly the same on one aspect: they all burn with resilient curiosity. He’s grown to appreciate that wherever he goes, because where they are not is only the creeping devastation of time. He sets off one or two little crackers as he rides past; the dwarflings’ cheers trail them like the scent of smoke. “Your children are spirited,” he says.

Thorin inclines his head. “They are.”

Olórin says nothing of the half-bald dwarf tattooed with intricate geometries shadowing their every move; neither does Thorin.

Their exchange remains bland with politics until they are welcomed and settled in Thorin’s mead-halls. Thankfully it had been easy enough to prattle on, despite the distance they had ridden; Thorin had not been exaggerating when he had declared their information antiquated. But news is not a priority between them, no matter how desperately in need of updating. “Tell me, Thorin,” Olórin murmurs, when all obligatory customs have been dealt with, and their solid tail has firmly ensconced himself into the archway as a blatant guard, “the true reason behind your inquisition.”

Thorin slows his bites to stare into the hearth-fire for a very long moment. “We have read omens of the doom of Smaug,” he finally says, “but we do not know enough of the world as it has spun to gauge how the doom will befall him.”

Fate, indeed. “And what will you do with this information?”

“If the dragon is to fall, I will go to reclaim Erebor. My people has bided long years in poverty and disgrace. I would have them return to their rightful home.”

Olórin inclines his head; neither agreement, nor dissent. “And what do your advisors say? Your father?”

“My advisors were the ones who bore to me the portents. And...” Thorin Oakenshield grimaces, not quite hiding it behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth, “my father has been lost to us for over a century and a half since the day we bled the orcs in Dimrill Dale.”

Interesting. It has almost been a hundred and sixty years since he’d, ah, met that last odd Dwarf as well, bearing rarities about him that a lesser Dwarf would not have possessed— _Oh_. So he had been—

Olórin hums thoughtfully. “I believe I have information relevant to you for your quest.” Yes, this is how to approach the stage-setting, with delicacy and fell strokes in parallel; time is beginning to run out, by the sound of things. It is quite curious, though, how he can hear his own echo in Thorin Oakenshield’s song—

“And the terms?”

Olórin blinks. “Terms?”

Thorin’s smile is edged with brittle hardness. “I know enough of transactions to negotiate the price first. What is the price you would ask in recompense for your troubles?”

Such distrust! But perhaps he should not be surprised. Much misfortune have Aulë’s children suffered; it is only to be expected, closest to Melkor’s own brand of dissonance as they are. Still, Olórin’d never anticipated ever hearing a Dwarf’s weave harmonize with the Great Music. Briefly he thinks of the tune he’d hummed that morning amidst his memories, and his homesickness returns with a vengeance.

Perhaps it really is that simple. It is truly unfortunate, then, that his task is anything but. “I will help you on your quest, if you bring along a burglar of my own, a hobbit, and treat him on the same terms as the rest of your party. He is a fine example of his kind, soft-footed and well-versed in the art of walking unseen in broad daylight, and he will be of utmost importance to your success.”

Thorin eyes him suspiciously. “Very well. Name your companion, and if he is deemed suitable for our task, he shall come with us.”

“Why, you may meet him in person before the quest begins and render your own judgement about his acceptability!” Hobbits seem to be made of surprises, after all. “Gather your company, Thorin Oakenshield! Expect me to send word in a month or so, and we will further discuss this in my good hobbit’s hospitality.”

Now, to find a sensibly adventurous hobbit with a home to offer enduring comforts... Where does Belladonna Took’s son live again? Perhaps where that Shire-music had been deafening him, maybe, just west of the Three-Farthing Stone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The only reason why Dís is dead in my headcanon is because if she weren’t, Dáin Ironfoot would not have ascended Erebor’s throne – Dís would have, as the next in line. (AKA I am following Tolkien’s canon only if I can also give the universe’s sexism a grand no-thank-you. I don’t know what that makes me, but unrepentant is one of the options.)
> 
> 2\. You know what I wonder? Why Thorin never questioned Gandalf how he came about his father's undoubtedly well-guarded treasures, especially if Thorin had never met Gandalf until, like, a few months before the quest had started. I’m halfway convinced Gandalf strong-armed his way into the party through equal parts intimidation, extortion, and negotiation. (Of course, I’m aware that given how The Hobbit had been for children, this kind of plot hole Tolkien hadn’t bothered with.)
> 
> That said, I am fairly certain this headcanon will get jossed by the Desolation of Smaug, as they’re reintroducing Thráin, who should have been long dead according to the novel. So... yeah. We’ll see what happens.


	5. Chapter 5

_V_

“Yes, I understand, cousin. But tell me, how are you going to finance this expedition?”

Thorin rocks back a step, as if he had not actually thought about the matter thoroughly. Glóin sighs, annoyed, and shakes the accounting book meaningfully. “Did you think the wizard would magic into being funds for your gear and supplies? Or did you think the company could beg its way across the grasslands of Eriador and depend on the hospitality of Elves?”

A brief thundercloud crosses Thorin’s expression. Ah, a pertinent question to which he has no answer and does not want to admit it.

“I know you are relying on the proven loyalty of Dwarves, but we cannot amass an army with so little time to spare. Such a dangerous course will require more incentive than mere battle-custom.” Thorin should know this; they had just stepped out of Glóin’s monthly briefing on the state of their settlement’s accounts. Their people may no longer be starving wretches or homeless vagabonds, but neither are they able to afford to bet their lives against potentially unrewarding endeavours. Dwarves are made to endure, not spread roots to risky soils.

“I know. I have sent envoys to the Dwarven kingdoms detailing the prophecies. I intend to brief willing dwarves on current details of the journey, and have them sign a contract ere we depart.”

“Aye, but you must first attract interest for those discussions to even take place. Thorin! Your plan has not been thought through.”

Thorin growls at him. “I am already investing my own wealth into this quest! And I will call upon my resources.” He draws up straight; Glóin knows what Thorin will ask before he opens his mouth. “I call upon _you_. You know your brother’s skill with forecasting, and you know the terror of the dragon! You are of the line of Durin. You have a duty of allegiance.”

Glóin meets his eyes squarely. It will take more than Thorin Oakenshield to cow him! “Royal blood flows in my veins, yes; I will not refuse you aid. But I have a wife and a child! I will not follow you into ruin!”

Thorin exhales through his teeth. “I plan to offer an equal share of Erebor’s treasures to each willing member of my company upon its successful retaking. But I know that the sons of Gróin have scales for eyes, and are ever wise with their riches. Should you choose to invest your finances and your personal effort into this journey, I will offer you a choice pick of your winnings after mine and my heirs. Are these terms agreeable to you?”

Glóin stares at him, more taken aback than he’d like to admit. “Quick are you to bargain, cousin.”

“We must act quickly, before we lose the chance. I know you have much to risk, but, by Mahal, these signs are the best we can expect...”

He pauses to stare across the hall. Glóin follows his gaze; it lands upon Kíli as he ducks into sight from just beyond the meeting hall’s door. He is followed closely by Dwalin, whom seems to be admonishing Kíli on the finer points of his sparring footwork. Kíli is shoving at Dwalin, laughing; his hands hover upon the fresher lines of Dwalin’s markings, and seemingly despite himself, Thorin flinches.

He catches Glóin’s look and jerks his eyes aside. “I would not ask any dwarf for more than I myself would give,” he finishes harshly, almost like a curse.

Glóin finds himself nodding in complete understanding. Mahal's children are not gracious in seeking aid; they are a steadfast lot, proud and strong. But Glóin knows value when he sees it, if not in treasures, then in their youth. “If my Gimli could know of the riches beneath the Mountain, then there is little I would not sacrifice,” he sighs. “I must speak with my wife, but if Mahal is willing, I will join your quest, Thorin Oakenshield, under the terms that you have offered.”

Besides, an equal division of Erebor’s legendary treasures is not a bad investment indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Óin and Glóin are supposed to have joined partially out of duty and partially out of financial interest. But if every party member is guaranteed an equal share in treasures, how are they getting a deal out of what they have invested, in comparison with the rest of the party? Allegiances aside, I can’t see them as the type to follow Thorin just to keep track of the purse’s drawstrings.
> 
> Thus, this chapter! If the Dwarven mercantile industry is sufficiently advanced enough to have introduced some form of banking into their financial industry (another headcanon; no way are they going to carry all their gold around and still be mobile), then I don’t see why Óin and Glóin won’t recognize the more precious portions that may accrue in value and make them very wealthy indeed in the future.


	6. Chapter 6

_VI_

“I heard you were looking for some comrades-in-arms.”

Thorin looks up with a jolt, half-unsheathing a very large, very hidden dagger in the same movement. “How’d you get in?”

Nori snorts. “I walked in.”

He leans against the doorway with a flourish to show that he is unarmed, then rather regrets his flippant attitude when Thorin scowls suspiciously at him. Antagonizing the key to getting the hell out of here might be unwise, Nori... “Dwalin is currently on guard duty.”

Nori shrugs extravagantly. “Consider this a sample of my skillsets that may be of your service, then.”

Thorin eyes him; his eyebrows are jumping as high as they can go. “Is it wise for you to be telling me about your... skillsets, son of...?”

“Wise enough.” Nori gives him his most guileless smile as he bows. “Nori, son of Olrún, at your service.”

“Son of Olrún.” Thorin’s regard hones to a keen edge. “Any relation to Dori?”

Nori narrows his eyes despite himself. “He is my elder brother.”

“Ah.” Thorin leans back, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes suggesting that he is not quite smiling. “Then I suppose you are the young one he cared for in the early days of our settlement. You’re very good at avoiding Dwalin now, eh?”

Nori flushes, praying that his beard hides the worst of it. He’d been hoping Thorin had forgotten... him as a sparse-haired child running headlong into Dwalin mid-escape – well, mid-attempted-escape – from a squalling Dori had not been the most dignified of initial impressions. At least he hadn’t run into Thorin himself. Then again, he’d run into _Dwalin_. And he keeps _running into_ Dwalin— “Well, I haven’t had any mishaps with Dwalin today.”

Thorin cracks a grin. “I wouldn’t be so quick to declare that. Dwalin just hasn’t discovered you yet.” He stresses the last word with a definite curl of amusement, before it dissolves and he is composed once more. “You heard correctly. I am looking for able dwarves to accompany me to Erebor, so that we may retake it from the dragon Smaug.”

Erebor is plenty far, and the favour of the King under the Mountain would be an excellent backing for his reputation. “I am willing to come.”

Thorin nods slowly, humming low in his throat. “You can fight?”

Nori thumps his mace on the ground (quietly, so that Dwalin won’t notice). “I can take care of myself.”

Thorin nods again, just as slowly as before. The King must be desperate for questing companions, if he is avoiding questions with potential answers that could put him in a politically uncomfortable position. No matter. Most of Nori’s current problems would be solved just by joining this quest. The protection afforded to the King’s companions should be more than sufficient to discourage even the most persistent of his, ah, pursuers. And if not, well, Nori _can_ take care of himself, after all.

He could die on the quest, of course, but that’s a possibility he’s courted since he’d taken his first socially disagreeable action. If there is one specialty Nori prides himself in practicing, it is self-sufficiency.

With this, he won't have to ever rely on anybody again. Not Dori, not his mother, not anybody.

“All right. As you should have realized from my closed office door, I am currently not available to tell you the itinerary or explain to you the gist of your contract. You’ll have to return,” Thorin checks a scroll briefly, “two days from now, noontime.”

“Just know that I will likely agree, if your terms are reasonable.”

“Then please accept a preliminary welcome to my company, Nori, son of Olrún. I’ll have to have a talk with you – and with Dwalin, just in case—” Nori groans; he’s never going to live it down! “—but be rest assured that if all goes smoothly, a contract will be prepared for you ere the quest begins. You may go.”

Nori bows, then hesitates. “You’re not going to call Dwalin in now?” he says cautiously.

Thorin eyes him for a beat of silence, before that not-smile surfaces again. “Why don’t you treat this as a demonstration of your skillsets? Dwalin cannot afford to lose his touch, as the one responsible for watching my back.”

Nori is well aware that his smile is slightly disbelieving, but mostly delighted. So Thorin Oakenshield isn’t above playing pranks on his closest companions! It is a good trait to have. “Then you must watch closely, Thorin-King!”

Now... how to, ah, walk back out?


	7. Chapter 7

_VII_

The office door of the King is open, as Nori (after a lot of pestering) had said it would be at this time of day. The King himself looks very occupied, though, so... perhaps it is a bad time?

No. That’s not how he should think of this. Any time is a bad time, when one has to ensure that the settlement is running smoothly. He might as well interrupt now, else he risks finding the King in deeper absorption of his papers on a second occasion. Ori knocks on stone, steeling himself for the wolf’s gaze that swings up to meet his. “Thorin Oakenshield, may I have the favour of your audience for a few minutes?”

Thorin Oakenshield sets his quill down and interlaces his fingers. Ori would like to think he’d imagined the brief frown that had crossed the King’s brow, but— “Speak.”

Ori ducks into the office to bow deeply. “Ori, son of Olrún, at your service.” He can recall Thorin Oakenshield’s visits to their halls from his earliest memories, but the King very likely doesn’t remember or recognize Ori as the young dwarfling who had been clinging to Dori’s robes then.

Thorin Oakenshield’s demeanor is completely impenetrable. “What is it, son of Olrún?”

“I heard that you were calling for questing companions...” Ori falters, then shrinks from the unchanging expression despite his resolution to stand tall. “I wish to join you.” It is purely by Mahal’s blessing that he does not turn that into a question. Gird your nerves, Ori!

The King regards him for several more moments, sighs. “How old are you, Ori?”

Despite himself yet again, Ori bristles. “I am old enough to decide, Thorin-King!”

The King shakes his head. “I do not accept dwarves who are not yet of age into my questing party.”

“I am of age!”

“Truly?” The King eyes what exists of his beard.

Ori can feel the all-too familiar dismissal beginning to bubble beneath Thorin Oakenshield’s patience. “Please! Hear me, please.”

Thorin Oakenshield stares at him for four hard heartbeats, then nods curtly. “I will hear you.”

“I am not afraid of hardship. I can fight!” _Stay safe, Ori._ “I can handle myself.” _Stay out of trouble, Ori._ “I will not be a burden.” _Be careful, Ori. You are still young, Ori. Wait until you grow up, Ori—_

“You are an apprentice scribe, no? Your clothing, your bearing, and the ink beneath your fingernails all indicate so,” Thorin Oakenshield elaborates, when Ori gives him a wide-eyed look. “Do you not love your position? It is an honoured one.”

“I— yes, I love to write and draw, but of what use am I in this city?” Nori has seen so much more on his adventures; the evidence of the world’s lessons sparks in his eyes. Here... Here, all that there is to record is tinged with misery, beneath the peace. Their people’s memory runs long, and they are not kind enough to lie. Ori bows, hiding hot tears of frustration. “Please.”

“Greatness come from withstanding suffering.” The King’s voice has not changed, but it does not rumble so forbiddingly. “You are not content with safe shelter, guaranteed victuals, and good status? Why do you wish to step into certain danger?”

“History will not be written here,” Ori whispers, willing Thorin Oakenshield to feel his conviction by the strength of his gaze alone. If there is anything to be learned from books, it is that there is a time to endure, and a time to fight. He opens his mouth— and finds his voice silenced when he tries to speak further. So his words are already spent... He mentally curses himself, directing his mounting disappointment back to the ground. What a wonderful demonstration of strength, Ori, failure of Olrún...

“Very well. I do not have time right now, Ori; come back tomorrow at dusk and I will tell you the quest’s details and the compact you are to sign. If you are amenable to those conditions, you may join my company.”

Ori jerks his head up to stare at the King. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

“I will! Thank you!” Ori backs out of Thorin Oakenshield’s office on singing feet, hardly daring to believe— “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

“No,” Thorin Oakenshield says softly, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be honest, Ori’s arc is my favourite in this series.
> 
> In other news, I’ve been having a bit of a rough time on my side of RL, and Bofur’s not speaking up much for his part (which needs to be written in parallel with Bifur’s and Bombur’s), so there will probably be a delay with their upcoming chapters, and with replies to comments (thank you so much!!). Come on, Bofur...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. After a year the block on this thing finally relented and let me write the last three unfinished chapters! Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur just weren’t cooperating, and then The Desolation of Smaug derailed some of my plans for chapters in Part 2. So the bad news is that Part 2 is still nowhere near done being drafted. The good news is that the rest of Part 1 IS. I just need to find time to edit, finalize and format the chapters for sharing.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

_VIII_

There are no finer places than taverns and pubs for offhand information. It’s one of the best lessons Mother had taught him, and Bofur’s put it to excellent use too many a times to count. Where ale flows, words will follow. And sometimes also vomit, so it is always good to keep a sharp mind and a sharper reaction time when necessary. The smell of stomach contents is so much harder to rid than that of blood...

In any case, it won’t be hard to find the trail to a new source of income in here, not the least for those who know where to sit and listen. When Bifur slams his tankard down and gestures for more, Bofur obliges by nicking his dear cousin’s purse and making his way to the barkeep and his conversing patron.

“...Be in want of many able bodies, aye.”

Ah, there they go. “In want, sir?” Bofur says cheerily, thumping his elbows on the counter.

They turn at his voice. “Questing business, lad,” the barkeep finally says. He gives Bofur a narrow look, one mirrored by the redbeard patron. “Not for anybody who isn’t serious about commitment.”

Bofur gives them his most guilelessly winning smile. “Dwarves are more loyal than any living being! And my party and I are just on the lookout for a quest. What marvelous timing! Is there a call? Who put it out?”

The barkeep eyes him for another spell, but nods at length. “Thorin Oakenshield’s calling for questing companions.” The King! “Have a word with him when you can find him. If you catch him in a good mood, mayhaps he’ll buy you a pint for your trouble.”

“Oakenshield’s like to call it a summon, not a call,” the patron opines with a snort into his drink.

“Thank you, sir. We shall be on the lookout for our king. Speaking of pints, bring us another round, will you? There’s a good dwarf.” He slaps coins down on the counter, adds a few extra for good graces, regales the redhead with sundry tales, and waits until he’s returned to their table with the pair’s regards to lean close to Bombur. “The barkeep’s got a voice to rival war-horns, eh? Don’t dodge now, I know you heard it all. What do you think?”

“I think we should worry about dinner first,” Bombur grumps, draining his new lot with studious focus. Always reliable, his Bombur. “We’re nearly out of onions.”

“But a quest, brother! Thorin Oakenshield wants us! The King Under the Mountain!” Or was it King Beneath the Mountain? No matter, no matter, they’ve the name and his game, they’ll get the dwarf. “You’re not excited at the possibility of belonging to his company?”

“He wants dwarves to quest with him, not us in particular,” Bombur corrects, after swallowing half his beer, “rather like the way we shall be wanting for onions before the sun sets.”

“Nonsense. Questing business is a booming trade; there is never a shortage of want for folks like us. And are you comparing us to those tearjerkers?” Bofur chews on a warm piece of sourdough thoughtfully. “What say you, cousin Bifur? This quest pulling at your heart yet?”

Bifur looks up at his name, rattles off a string of Aglâb, and gestures vehemently.

Bombur looks at his empty tankard sadly. “What’s Bifur saying?”

“Something about fresh vegetables. Or a new blade for his spear. But probably about vegetables, methinks. We only just gave him a whetstone last week.”

“See, even our good cousin is thinking about the sad state of our upcoming supper, if we must ration our onions.” Bombur glances at Bifur, who is now surveying the pub with detached interest, his filled tankard plumb forgotten in his hands. “You reckon Bifur knows Thorin Oakenshield?”

“Reckon it’s likely. Why don’t we find out in person, eh?”

Bombur sighs. “Do you really think he wants us for his company, brother? Vagabonds and miners? And can we even recognize him? I wager it’ll be even odds that we’ll mistake Thorin Oakenshield for somebody else, or the other way ‘round.”

“He wants us, brother. And hey, as long as we find our wayward king, who’s to object to some minor misadventures, eh? We know how to handle ourselves.” Truth be told, Bofur doesn’t remember much of the fall of Erebor save the choking smell of ash and dragonfire, and Bombur then had been little more than a babe. But he _does_ remember growing up in the Iron Hills with the refugee children, before they’d grown too big and had to leave with Bifur. And then it had been the three of them, he and Bifur and Bombur, eking out their lives in between towns and adolescence. It had been a hard time, but a great time, too; with nobody but the three of them, they were free to make everything as loud and as lively as they wished. Even if it sometimes brought a warg tumbling down on them...

But! The point is, Thorin Oakenshield’s wandered just as they had, adrift and uncertain. And probably not having had as much fun, all things considered; for one, he definitely hasn’t had Bombur’s stewed warg. Bombur does have a way with his pots and pans, does his brother. The texture alone is enough to fortify a dwarf for another week of toil.

The point is, Thorin Oakenshield knows want, the way Bofur knows want. That’s how he knows. More than his blurry memory of the ruler at the root of the Lonely Mountain, that’s how he’ll know Thorin Oakenshield when he sees him.

Bombur sighs again, hopelessly. “Oh, all right. If he will provide for us. But first, dinner.”

Bofur slaps him on the back. “That’s my brother! Bifur, up we go. We need to dig up some onions. There’ll be a good meal tonight.”

Here’s to their future companions!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At play here is a whole headcanon involving dwarven ages and physiology and social structure that, when written out, would have ended up longer than this chapter. Hopefully over the series I’ll be able to explicate some of the details out without turning it into pure meta, but here is the relevant bit for this chapter:
> 
> Part of why I’m not subscribing to every dwarf in the party having followed Thorin into Ered Luin as the first batch of settlers is because some of them would have been children at the time of Erebor’s fall. Why would they bring young children on what is essentially an existence based on unstable income from uncertain employment? They’d need all available able-bodied dwarves to work to support the mobile refugees; children aren’t ideal for that kind of self-supporting work. I’d think that the Iron Hills, as the one branch of Durin’s Folk close by, would have taken in the most needy of the refugees: namely, families with the extremely young and extremely old, those with mobility issues, and/or those who essentially cannot support the colony via work.


End file.
